


Goodbye

by historicaltrashami



Category: The King's Speech (2010)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Bertie's dead, Consensual Infidelity, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historicaltrashami/pseuds/historicaltrashami
Summary: Lionel says good bye to Bertie one last time.
Relationships: Lionel Logue/Bertie Windsor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> I want to be very clear that this is based on the movie characters and not the real people. I wrote this 6 months ago but was so uneasy about writing it that I sat on it until now. However the lockdown theme for me seems to be historical RPS so I am now just leaning into it. 
> 
> And I am actually very happy with it now. 
> 
> This is part of a larger potential series where Elizabeth and Myrtle both know and while not 100% okay with it, understood that Bertie and Lionel needed each other. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are life!

March 1952

The note, when it comes, is plain and unadorned, and not on official stationary. The language is simple, a date, a time and a location. Lionel weighs the achiness of his bones and the fatigue that keeps him homebound and none of it matters. He’s going anyway. 

A week later he’s in the backseat of a car, winding its way through the dusk light to Windsor. It’s a trip he’s made dozens of times before but this time is different. There’s a new ruler of the castle. 

He and Bertie had known that the last time that they had said goodbye it was in fact the last time. Bertie had looked double his age and Lionel had been winded walking to Bertie’s private study. Age and ill health had caught up with both of them and it was only a matter of time. They hadn’t made a huge deal of it, years of stolen moments and whispered words, and months without seeing each other, knowing that this was not their time and place, making it unnecessary. Though, if they lingered just a little too long and if they had hugged a little too tight, no one would know but them. 

He hadn’t been surprised when the news broke, just infinitely sad and tired. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to see him lying in state. Hadn’t been willing to share his grief with everyone. He mourned the King, yes, but he grieved for Bertie. 

“Sir?” The chauffeur's voice shook him from his thoughts. The car had stopped, not in front of the Castle but down to the side by the chapel. Darkness covered the courtyard and a lone figure stood by the side entrance. 

Lionel unfolded himself from the car and slowly made his way to the man.

“Mr. Logue.” The crisp voice cut through the silence. Lionel swallowed. Tommy Lascelles had the knock of making him feel like a naughty school boy. 

“I didn’t ask for this.” Lionel said gruffly, staring over Lascelles shoulder. He’s not sure why he said it. 

The man’s face softened a fraction. “Her Majesty the Queen Mother was insistent.” 

“And I am grateful for it.” Lionel answers, eager to get on with it. 

Lascelles nods. “This way.” He turns and strides to the door. Lional curses his fluidity of movement in his head and follows. 

He should feel honored or moved, as they move in the St. George’s chapel, he thinks. Dozens of royals stretching back hundreds of years are buried here. He’s been offered a privilege very few people have. But he can’t bring himself to care. 

The chapel is lit softly, flickering candles casting shadows that dance on the walls, revealing glimpses of flags and pageantry and the trappings of royalty that had once impressed him so much. 

But he’s seen what that world can do, how it can chew people up and spit them up. Faint scars on knees and a stomach that never really recovered, not the least of it. He’s seen a man, strong and noble and so so brave, be worn down to nothing, having given everything for his county, his people and the crown. 

Lascelles stops in by the front of the quire, where the pews end and before the steps of the altar begin. Here two gold tiles break the black and white pattern, surrounded by a slight lip and Lionel knows. There is a table draped in white cloth to the right and a photo of the King in his coronation robes that Lionel can’t bring himself to look at. 

Lascelles clears his throat. “The vault itself is off limits. This is as close as we can go. No one shall disturb you. I’ll be waiting out the way we came.” He nods stiffly and turns to go. 

“Mr. Lascelles?” Lionel calls out. He waits for the other man to turn. They’ve never been particularly close for all that they had served the same man and Lionel’s had never known exactly what Lasecelles had known. The man is a consummate servant to the crown and Lionel knows that this lapse in protocol goes against everything the man stands for. But he is here anyway. 

“Thank you.” Lionel says simply. “Thank you for this.” 

Lascelles could deflect, mention the will of the Queen Mother, mention duty, any number of things and Lionel half expects a sharp rebuke. 

But the man merely nods and says. “Take your time.” And leaves Lionel alone, in an empty chapel standing over the vault where the man he loved beyond reason is interred.

He stands quietly breathing in the silence. Bertie had been so afraid of silence, of having his voice fail but it hadn’t, not once as King, not until the very end, when illness had stolen a vocal cord. He thinks about what to say and realizes that there isn’t anything new to say, that there won’t be anything new to say and that’s when the tears start. For the first time since he heard the news he cries. He doesn’t sob, doesn’t rage, just stands quietly tears dripping from his face until his legs can’t hold him up anymore. 

He folds himself down to the floor, knowing he’ll have trouble hauling himself back up but he doesn’t care. His fingers run across the lip that hide the entrance to the vault and he turns his head to stare at the photo of Bertie, so serious, so handsome, so regal, no trace of the fear and doubt Lionel knew he had been feeling. His mind bounces from memory to memory, as the tear drops stain his trousers. Bertie singing, waltzing, cursing, smiling, raging, loving. 

He can’t focus on one but instead lets images drift through his thoughts. He had thought he had given up being bitter years ago, how there was never enough time. But he feels a shard of that now, the sheer unfairness of it all. He lets himself feel it and then lets it go. He’s had a good life, he loved Myrtle and his boys and his grandchildren, and he knows Bertie had loved Elizabeth and their girls, and his grandchildren and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither of them would have chosen differently. He thinks that maybe in a different time and in a different place, in different roles that maybe they could have been happy. But then he thinks about all the things he loved about Bertie, the honor, the courage, the vulnerability and even the temper, and wonders if they would have been the same people and if they still would have loved each other? 

He laughs darkly. It doesn’t matter. They loved each other the best that they could in this time and in this place and in the end, that’s all that matters. And he realizes, as the tears slow and the ache in his head grows, that there is one last thing to say. 

He bends forward, knowing what a bad idea this is, and how many people have walked this floor, and doing it anyway, presses his lips to a gold square. “Loving you was one of the greatest joys and privileges of my life, Bertie.” 

He straightens and carefully stands up, joints cracking loudly. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls on a handkerchief, drying his face. He is sure his eyes are red and swollen but there isn’t anything he can do about it. 

He moves to stand by the photo of Bertie and stares at him a little longer before reaching into his other coat pocket. He had thought about what to bring or even if he should bring anything and in the end had decided on this. He sets the little model airplane down by the photo, bows and whispers “Your Majesty.”

He takes one last look at the floor before turning and walking away.


End file.
